


That Girl

by Ridiculosity



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Bickering, Bollywood, Bollywoodesque Train Scene, Class Differences, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Graduate Research, Graduate School, Kissing as the Train Leaves, Magical Accidents, Old Married Couple, Research Assistants, Romantic Fluff, Rough Kissing, Trains, Uprooted Harvest Faire, this is gonna be a mess of tropes and i'll do my best to tag them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 21:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: It was Solya's classroom, and by any scientific fact, the person he should dislike the most should be Solya himself. Increasingly, however, that girl with the inane questions was vying for the position of The One Irritating Him Most.





	1. Principles of Summoning: First Period

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iridogorgia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/gifts).

> I have shamelessly expressed all my frustration with my academic career by projecting all of my situations on to these two poor characters. This fic is legitimately just that, just a shameless projecting of all my problems because I can. Also you may have noticed that I used the "Bollywood" tag - that's because the train scene as a lover leaves is legitimately the most Bollywood Indian thing that ever happens. I yearn for the day I can say goodbye to my lover as the train leaves, I don't even think you white people have trains where doors don't automatically just close instead of staying open so that you can hang out of the door as the train leaves and the person you love turns around to look at you one last time. Please google an Indian train and use your imagination because god!!!! I'm not gonna edit my hot Indian fantasy for the sake of LOGIC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy - written for the Uprooted Harvest Faire!
> 
> I'm writing this for iridogorgia who read this book on my recommendation and will relate to whatever I have written XD.

He had memorised her face.

Black hair, dark eyes, tall like a beanpole, and her jeans were always ripped. He knew it was a fashion statement these days, but he had a very strong feeling that it _wasn’t _in her case. It _wasn’t. _She was just a mess like that. Anyway, stylishly torn jeans were supposed to be torn at the knees, right? She had rips at the knees, but she also did on her thighs, and the seams were coming off from the ankles. Mud absolutely _everywhere, _everytime.

After so many months of memorising her face, you’d think she wouldn’t find _new _ways to be a mess, but she was always able to.

And her questions! Not only was she failing class, but she also had the audacity to ask absolutely bizarre questions that made _no sense._

Who _cared _about Yaga’s rules of singing? Who _cared _about the Seelie laws? No one used these outdated methods anymore – and no one had any proof they worked anyway. He hadn’t seen any proper studies on the matter, and if anyone said _ethnographic method _once again, he was going to turn them into frogs.

Freckles on her face, fingers in the dirt. Everything was just that about Agnieszka of Dvernik – the nobody from nowhere, on scholarship for some reason (by the by, just what kind of a name was _Agnieszka? _Was she still going by her birthname?). Professor Alosha had given it to her, and he had really wondered if Alosha had finally lost her head.

“But how can the grammatical principle work without any encouragement?”

He glared at her.

Solya was spluttering. “My dear girl, what _kind _of encouragement?”

“Cooking!” said _that_ girl. “Cooking, and musical accompaniment. That’s how the summoning works, doesn’t it? You have to work in tandem, or it doesn’t.”

“And just _how _would you know how a summoning works?” asked Solya nastily. “You understand none of the principles of the summoning, and it is far too advanced for you anyway. Better wizards than you have failed.”

She looked ready to say something, but she stopped herself. She fell back in her chair, and Sarkan took a deep breath.

She met his eyes then.

He didn’t know whether she had heard him sighing or whether she was just looking for some sort of support. Rest assured, it wasn’t coming from _him. _

She frowned briefly before turning away. The class went on, and thankfully she remained silent for the rest of it. Sarkan fancied his chances if the girl decided to pick a fight with him. He was a better wizard, after all, and she didn’t look like much. He had more power – a postdoctorate studying on fellowship, and she was doing her _Master’s. _

But she was scrawny and wiry, and seemed to be willing to withstand anything – which made him pause for a moment. Girls like that had a tendency to know how to fight until the end, and he really didn’t see the sense in that.

He shook his head. He was a doctorate student, unlike this slip of a girl. He was only studying amongst the postgraduates because Solya’s course had been surprisingly nicely formed. She didn’t deserve his attention. She _didn’t _deserve his attention.

Finally, at the end of his lecture, Solya packed his stuff. His eyes met Sarkan’s for a second, and he looked exasperated. Despite all his misgivings about _that _girl, there was no way he was going to strike up a friendship with _Solya _because of it. She didn’t deserve that either.

He went to the greenhouses then. All of his schedules had been up in the air since she had started coming to the university: usually, he liked having a cup of tea at the community centre, but he’d noticed that she’d drop in for some coffee. Since she had no _friends, _she just looked a little pathetic and slightly lost, practicing her magic by herself. He could never see what she was doing – but he was uninterested. Anyone who had a cup of coffee with that much cream was asking to be ignored.

The university greenhouses were, thankfully well stocked and well supplied. Research into the Green Plague always gave _anyone _a better chance at funding – which automatically meant all postgraduate and postgraduate students assisted in the greenhouses. Sarkan’s thesis was on the summoning, so he had no idea what he went to do there – but he found some peace in the ordered structure of greenery.

He sat at his workstation and shut his eyes, trying to forget her voice.

“No, Kasia, I didn’t get into trouble,” she said in his head.

He opened his eyes again.

There she was – not with her customary cup of coffee at the community centre, but in front of him.

“I hate it here,” she said to the poor soul listening to her on the phone. “No one wants to listen to anything I have to say, and everyone’s a _man. _I wish you were here. I can’t wait for the harvest faire, I’m booking my tickets this minute.”

He glared at her.

“Say hi to your mother,” said _that _girl. “Tell her if she doesn’t make apple crumble this time, I’m going to sue. It was shameful that she didn’t last time. Apple jam is _not _the same thing, Kasia, and stop equating them before I murder you.”

He clenched his fists.

“Be _quiet, _Kasia,” laughed the girl on the phone. She looked happy for a second. Not since he had met her had she looked happy, not once.

The first words Sarkan said to the girl were: “I am begging_ you_ to be quiet.”

She looked at him then. “I’ll call you back, Kasia.”

He met her gaze without hesitation. She was dishevelled, but that was nothing new. Her hair’s nest was everywhere, and he almost saw electricity crackle through it.

“What is your _problem _with me?” she asked finally.

Of all the questions she could have asked, he hadn’t expected that one.

“I have never met you,” he said.

“Bullshit,” said the girl. “You are _always _annoyed with me – don’t think I don’t notice! You get annoyed at all the questions I ask in Professor Solya’s class.”

“I think _everyone _does,” he said nastily. “You ask stupid questions, Dvernik.”

She looked like she would burn him down this instant. “It’s not my fault all of you are too blockheaded for my questions or suggestions. None of you have any imagination whatsoever.”

“What kind of imagination are you expecting?” he asked. “And what would you know, anyway? You’re a half baked magician, and I’ve never actually seen you performing magic.”

“That’s because your stupid words never work for me!” she said, stamping her foot.

“Did you just stamp your foot?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you five?”

“Why are you being so difficult?” she asked. “You bother with your words and principles and everything – and I’m not saying it’s not good magic, it’s good magic! So is mine!”

He glared again at her, but before he could say anything –

“_Fulmia!” _she roared.

The earth quaked.

Sarkan looked at her, confused. The earth quaked, the winds whispered, and like a crackle, the thin coating of the green plague on the some of the isolated samples in the greenhouses fell off. Sarkan turned to watch as the plague began to fall like a dust on the floor of the sample containers, the leaves becoming green again, the plants beginning to glow.

He turned to her.

“How the _fuck _did you do that?”

She grinned with self-satisfaction. He would have willingly pinched her if he wasn’t a gentleman.


	2. Research Methodology, Sixth Period

“Hey, Agnieszka – there’s a party tonight, before the break. Do you want to come?”

Agnieszka didn’t even look up from her inkwell. She was stirring a heady concoction of ink, something that would make it spread _and _last – she was magicking it with a slight song, and she was trying her best to _concentrate. _

“No, Fyodor,” she said evenly, finishing the spell. She sealed the ink bottle in a satisfied sort of way.

Her stuff was sprawled all across the desk, her cup of coffee finished to the dregs, and her laptop winking at her tiredly.

“Oh. Why not?” he asked. “You could bring Sarkan.”

“No,” she repeated. “I don’t want to, and I have a paper coming up. If you want Sarkan to come, you ask him.”

Fyodor rubbed the back of his head. “As if I could.”

“That-”-she snapped her book shut-“-sounds like your personal problem.”

He cursed under her breath as Agnieszka cleaned up her stuff from the common room. She knew it would be late soon enough, and she wanted to get at the library. Ballo would keep it open for her, so she wasn’t too worried about reaching _very _late – but any sort of party involving other people was a good excuse to reach there early.

She didn’t bother watching Fyodor leave. Her things packed up, she put on her hoodie and left for the library.

The air was beginning to have a nip. Not enough for sweaters, but enough for her to wave her hair out behind her and revel in the cold. Her cheeks were pink with the smell of winter. All said and done, the university _was _beautiful – it did not have the same wild beauty of her village, of Kasia’s golden curls, of her mother’s stitching – but it was some _kind _of beauty. She twirled in the middle of her walk, her happiness at going home expanding with every second.

Up ahead of her, she spotted a very familiar irate figure leaving the library. 

“Sarkan!” she called.

He looked cross at having been called. He stopped midtrack and regarded her. “What?” he demanded.

“Could you _calm down,” _she said. “I’m glad I got you. I’m going home tomorrow, I told you, right?”

“Vividly,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t be stuffy,” said Agnieszka. “I just wanted to say goodbye – and I wanted to give you this.”

She dug through her bag. She wasn’t prepared to think about what it meant that she had been carrying it around in the hope of running into him.

She handed him the lumpy thing. “What is this?” he asked.

“It’s only a scarf. I was knitting it, and it didn’t turn out to be a complete mess. A jar of peach jam, too. I would have made sticky buns – they’re a Dvernik specialty, you know? But I am not very good at them, so I’ll have Kasia make some and give them to you. We can use the microwave to heat them up. Won’t be as good, but it’ll be –”

“-Dvernik!” he said.

She stopped.

“Why on _earth _are you giving me a scarf?” he asked. “I’m trying to be grateful, I really am.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “You monster,” she said. “I’m not doing it to melt your heart. I just noticed you don’t _have _one, and also, nobody in my village thinks my knitting is neat enough. You should see my mother – she can knit _anything. _I’m very useless in anything that requires patience, so mine aren’t very good. I thought better a lumpy scarf than _none –”_

“Do you _ever _stop talking?” he said.

“No,” she said. He looked at the jar of jam.

“Here,” she said. She opened the lid, dipped her finger, and tasted it. “It’s good,” she promised.

He looked horrified. Perhaps more by her shameless disregard of hygiene. She rolled her eyes when he seemed to refuse to do the same, and again she dug through her bag and offered some crackers.

Gingerly, he dipped a cracker and tried the jam.

She beamed when he didn’t look cross or annoyed. That was essentially the highest praise there was, from Sarkan.

“Fine,” he said. “_This _is good. I am unsure about the scarf, but this is good.”

“Say _‘thank you,’ _you numpty,” said Agnieszka good-humouredly. “And _I’ll _say thank you for all your help with my papers. I was almost certainly failing Solya’s class.”

“Thanks,” said Sarkan absently. “And you wouldn’t have failed. Solya can be really soft.”

“Regardless,” she said. “I’ll see you in two weeks. I promise you sticky buns.”

She turned around, and told herself to not look back. She didn’t for precisely three beats, before she looked back to find him ambling along home. He looked so young.

Agnieszka sighed as she rubbed her cheeks. She entered the library, and Ballo barely looked up. “Evening,” she mumbled as she began to take out her laptop and everything accompanying it. Ballo didn’t look up from what he was reading, handing her a pot of hot water. Agnieszka promptly dropped a teabag in it, added a bit of sugar, poured out a cup, and settled down on the desk.

She sipped some tea, looking despondently at her laptop screen. She rubbed her eyes and nose and took another sip of her tea. It was a special kind, Kasia made it for her sometimes – with strawberries and cranberries in it. Kasia had made her a few cloth teabags of the brew to take with her to the university and Agnieszka was using them sparingly – until tonight, that is.

“You won’t get much by grimacing at the laptop,” said Ballo from behind her.

“And I suppose I’ll get much by grimacing at a book?” she asked. “Don’t be annoying, Ballo. Or you’ll miss me too much while I’m gone.”

Ballo snorted in a characteristic way.

It was late – Agnieszka had to send in this paper within the hour, and like a proper postgraduate student, she was still pondering over it. She hadn’t bothered getting an extension, because she really, _really _didn’t want to take this assignment home with her tomorrow. The midsemester break was one of the few luxuries she could afford currently, and if she had to spend all her time with Kasia thinking about a paper, she might have to murder everyone in this school.

She chewed her lip again. “Sarkan said that even if I was using unconventional magic, my research has to be somewhat backed up by conventional methods or I’ll fail my midterms.”

Ballo weighed a book in his hand. “I still don’t know how you and Sarkan started talking.”

Agnieszka grinned. “Jealous?”

He went red. “_No!” _

He was. She knew because clearly, everyone had lost it when she started spending regular time with Sarkan in the greenhouses. She didn’t know why _they_ were spending so much time together – but at the very least, Sarkan didn’t _pretend. _There were scores of magicians trying to be nice to her all the time because she was _Alosha’s _scholarship student and none of them knew _why – _but Sarkan had never bothered. Even Ballo had spluttered when they first met, trying to perform the jigsaw puzzle in his head over why _she _was getting such a prestigious scholarship.

Things had gotten worse lately, now that it seemed she had secured Sarkan’s favour as well. All sorts of comments came her way and it had only been three months. People asking her what they were working on, whether Sarkan would respond to some research they were doing, whether Sarkan was interested in this field, whether Sarkan ever took any other apprentices. She had the urge to snap a few necks when that last one was asked of her – she _wasn’t _his apprentice, she was barely his _friend. _They were just trying to understand the Green Plague together – _fulmia _wasn’t enough, they needed a stronger solution.

It annoyed Sarkan that her slipshod spells, her untidy methods – cobbled together from years of living in Dvernik managing the cooking and the cleaning – were able to perform what years of perfection had given him. Thousands of principles and rules, and Agnieszka was able to pronounce half syllables and get away with it. She didn’t know how to tell him that intuiting the syllables was just as hard, that there were rules to the thing – she just didn’t know what they were. That she still had to learn to maintain her magic, to make sure she wasn’t finding herself in short supply of it – even if it looked a little like she wasn’t helping it along.

“I am surprised, however,” said Ballo, snapping her out of her reverie. “Why you?”

That was one thing about Ballo she liked: he would eventually just ask her. Unlike the other morons, the librarian appealed to her because he let her sit around near the books and bother him. He didn’t pretend she didn’t bother him, and he didn’t dismiss whatever she did passive aggressively – he was clear that he didn’t like the fact that she had this magic which worked differently, but that never bothered Agnieszka. She wouldn’t have liked it either if she had been the gatekeeper of thousands of books with hard principles on what to do only to have one peasant girl overturn all of them.

Ballo was straightforward in eventuality. He got his wits together and just asked her what was annoying him, but he took his time about it – and she never helped him along.

“What do you mean?” asked Agnieszka, determined to have him _say _what he was feeling.

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” said Ballo. “Haven’t you heard the rumours?”

Now Agnieszka frowned. “What rumours?”

He opened a book and started marking the dates of check out on his system. “The reason everyone’s treating you differently isn’t just because he’s a very well regarded academic – it’s also because he’s almost _never _taken an apprentice, not a TA, nothing. He’s notorious in keeping his research and magic away from the rest of us – it’s rare for him to even take a regular class, let alone an MA one.”

Agnieszka fell back in her chair. “He does seem very prickly.”

“Prickly is one way to describe Sarkan,” said Ballo darkly.

Agnieszka was thrilled. “Go on, Ballo,” she prodded. “What happened between you both?”

He looked at her with narrowed eyes and huffed. “Nothing _happened. _He’s just a very irritating academic. Not that I approve of _your _method, but research should come from the community as well!”

“Did he miss your thesis presentation?” she said slyly.

Ballo looked ready to explode. “Whatever relationship Sarkan and I have is _none _of your business, _freshie. _Be prepared for everyone to lick your boots even more if you keep at it. I know there’s some students who have hoped and prayed for Sarkan as an advisor on some of what they work on.”

“And why doesn’t he take anyone? I don’t even _have _a research interest for Sarkan to harangue me on.”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

He returned to his books.

It was one of those things about the whole affair – Agnieszka had spent the last few weeks fending off people who suddenly were interested in her opinion for some reason. Even Professor Solya had cornered her after class and demanded to know what she and Sarkan were working on – and she had to tell him off to the best of her abilities, without risking a failing grade.

“Be careful, Agnieszka,” said Ballo finally. “He’s not a terrible person, but he doesn’t have… roots. You need to develop that kind of thing when you’ve been working with the Green Plague for so long, but it can be difficult for everyone else.”

She wouldn’t be able to tell Ballo what it was between her and Sarkan. She didn’t know precisely what it was, but sometimes, she found herself staring at the intent expression on his face, his passion for magic overtaking nearly everything else. He was trying to teach her something that he loved, but she did it all wrong, and yet he was willing to bend. Some part of her understood – he was trying to learn her magic, understand the beauty – to him, the number of meanings expanded the more he understood. And Agnieszka was only ever caught in that passion, someone who had stumbled into loving her magic. She didn’t even know _how _she loved it, but around Sarkan – she was only _just _beginning to understand.

Agnieszka looked to her essay again. She had understood as much, of course – but she had her suspicions about this whole business. She had a feeling that you _needed _roots to make sure the thing went away, _needed _roots for research, for _magic. _

“Alright,” she said. “Will you help me finish? I need some stuff to back me up and I’m not going to make it by deadline – but I’m hoping to send the paper by three in the morning at the very least.”

“What time do you have to leave tomorrow?” he asked.

“Seven in the morning. Kasia said Wensa made apple crumble for me, and mother is waiting to hear from me.”

“Come – let’s finish, then.”

Ballo sat down next to her, and Agneiszka suffered through a good few hours of analysis, of Times New Roman, size twelve, double spaced. Ballo wrote edits in the printed margin and Agnieszka rubbed her eyes and continued working through the night. Another five hundred words, she commanded of herself. She already had three thousand words scribbled together, but she had to add Sarkan’s suggestions, add citations and more quotations that he had supplied her with – she had to perfect her research method because no one in this godforsaken university was ready to take her method seriously without it. And frankly, Ballo could be annoying with how self-righteous he was about the academic method.

“You’re thinking over your words too little,” he said.

“That’s because none of this makes sense,” she gritted out.

“How you got into this program I will never know.”

Agnieszka was ready to snap, but she stopped herself. It was beginning to grate on her, all these consistent attacks and barbs on whether she deserved to be here. She knew she did – in her heart, she knew. But it was hard for her to manage holding on to that when _no one _believed her skill. She was clever – she found cut aways and work arounds, she found messy magic and made it hers. This one didn’t belong to her – and it never would.

Another five hundred words. Another five hundred words.

The citations were finally somewhat complete, she knew there were grammatical mistakes she wasn’t able to see them because she was _tired – _but she couldn’t do anything about those at this point. She was going to send it in – even Ballo was looking tired. It was nearing two thirty in the morning. He wrapped his own studying up, and began to turn out the rest of the lights.

As he went to clean the kettle, Agnieszka emailed her paper in. She shouldn’t be getting a failing grade, at the very least.

God, she missed home.

She stretched her arms. “Are you done?” asked Ballo.

She nodded, shutting her laptop and stuffing her things away.

Ballo waited at the door as she scrambled herself together. They left the library together – it was cold again, and Agnieszka put her hood up. She looked to the stars, to the moon, to the skies and mentally said hello to Kasia, a full four hours before she was going to meet her.

“Your train is at seven, right?” Ballo was being gallant enough to walk her to her dorm.

Agnieszka nodded. “I’ll leave for the station around six. I still haven’t _packed, _and I have all these gifts for everyone.”

“People ought to be really happy to see you,” he said. “I remember going home as a student – it always felt like the world was just waiting for you to go, and as soon as you came back, the weather turned.”

“Like a turnover,” nodded Agnieszka. “And then you’re reminded of harvest faires, and apple crumbles, and the smell of leaves, your mother.”

“Where did you do your undergraduate again?”

Agnieszka grinned. “I went to Rosya for undergrad. I’m a certified antinational.”

Ballo stopped in front of her dorm building. “Anyway. Have fun at home, Agnieszka.”

“I’ll bring you some of my mother’s knitting, you heartbreaker,” she said with a wink. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and relished his expression of shock. “You’re one of the few reasons I made it this far in the semester,” she added. Ballo went pink, and seemed pleased. 

Very lonely people, these magicians, thought Agnieszka as she went to her room. They were _always _taken aback by friendship.

* * *

She stuffed the last of her hoodies into her suitcase. Her heart was fluttering with happiness, with the sound of music. She had never felt this before, this overwhelming strangeness – that where she was unbelievably wistful for her home, for the train that took her home, the touch of the wind – the smell of something cheerful. She was excited and tired at the same time, ready to go home and collapse on her bed. She looked at the university one last time from her balcony, the stone structures and delicate prettiness, and felt the wind again on her nose.

Agnieszka tumbled downstairs with her stuff, booking a cab on her way down. The screen kept loading, but she didn’t get one. The error message made itself known to her and Agnieszka cursed under her breath.

Five minutes passed as she continued trying to book a cab. It was already six ten and she was going to miss her train if she didn’t think of something _soon. _The bus didn’t arrive for another fifteen minutes, and buses took longer. Ballo would be asleep, he wouldn’t notice.

She chewed her lip.

Sarkan would be awake.

Once again she cursed under her breath, and she dialled him quickly. She heard the phone ring twice before he picked up.

“Goodmorning!” she said with false cheeriness. “I _really _hope I didn’t wake you.”

“_You know you didn’t. What do you want, Dvernik?” _

“I’m not being able to book a cab,” she said. “I know you have a car – could you – could you –”

“_I’m on my way,” _he said. “_Why didn’t you call before? You’re cutting it short.” _

“I only _just _couldn’t book it,” defended Agnieszka.

“_You mean you left so late?” _in the background, she heard his car start.

“The train station is an hour away!”

“_Which is why you leave at least half an hour before the train departs!” _

“Oh my _God,” _she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Will you come?”

“_Almost there.” _

The lucky thing about living on campus was that it didn’t take Sarkan longer than a few minutes. Agnieszka clambered into his car and settled down. Sarkan looked tired and angry.

“I’m _sorry,” _she said emphatically.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than forty minutes because there’s no traffic early in the morning.”

“Then stop being so grumpy,” whined Agnieszka. “I said I was sorry!”

He threw her a dirty look. She sighed and leaned against the window, when something red caught her eye. She grinned to herself.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re wearing the scarf I gave you,” she said.

Sarkan looked resolutely at the wheel. “I _am _supposed to wear it, Dvernik.”

Agnieszka glanced at him. “Why do you call me that? It’s not my name.”

“It’s _all _you talk about,” he sighed. “It was an old tradition during my undergrad. Since there was such a small class, and most of us didn’t know what our names were going to be. We called each other by where we came from.”

“Oh,” she said. “The… thing never worked for me. The naming.”

“I thought as much,” said Sarkan.

Agnieszka looked outside the window. “Could I ask you something, Sarkan?”

He didn’t say no, so she took a deep breath and began without looking at him.

“Do you think I belong here?”

There was more silence. Then: “Unlike you to be unsure of yourself.”

She combed her hair with her fingers. “I don’t doubt that I’m good,” she said. “I’m pretty reasonable with magic, only my spells do _different _things. Perhaps I don’t belong here – it’s hard to be sure of myself when almost no one is.”

Sarkan tilted his head to one side as he drove on. “Personally, I’ve never set much score by what Ballo thinks is good magic. He’s not very skilled himself, and if anyone’s a judge, it’s Alosha and me.”

Agnieszka’s eyes slid to him slowly.

“And I have found nothing to complain about,” continued Sarkan stiffly. “You make no sense, but it seems that the rules need to be rewritten. Besides, listen to this carefully: if you spend the rest of your career wondering about where you belong, you’re not going to get very far. Do what you have to, Dvernik. Anyone who thinks otherwise is probably a moron.”

She turned back to the window.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

In the corner of her eye, he nodded briefly.

They drove in silence for sometime. Agnieszka told him about her paper, Sarkan discussed some of his workings with her. They picked apart some of the music Sarkan had in his car, and Agnieszka sang along with some of the old songs. Her voice was light, unpracticed – but some of these were folk songs she remembered by heart. She thought she glanced Sarkan staring, but a moment later she was certain she had imagined it.

Sarkan parked the car and Agnieszka jumped out. They grabbed her bags and he snapped his fingers, and murmured some precisely pronounced words under his breath – bringing them both directly to the coach she had to board.

“Exactly why didn’t you do this from the campus itself?” she asked.

“I’d have been dead before we reached,” he snarled. “What’s your seat number?” 

“Fifty four! Window seat.”

They clambered on the train and located her seat. A short argument with the lady who had decided no one was taking the window seat later, Agnieszka had her luggage stowed away. She walked with Sarkan as he got off the train.

“Thank you again, Sarkan,” she said fervently. She hopped off the train and stuffed her thumbs into her pockets. His eyes looked like they were somewhere else for a second – the wind swept across her hair, and the light fogginess of October coloured the world a little.

There was the sound of a whistle.

“You better leave,” he said gruffly.

She had one foot on the step when she turned and hesitated. “I’ll miss you,” she blurted out. “Right, I’ll go –” she placed one hand on the bar to pull herself into the train when he grabbed her by her other wrist.

She turned back.

He seemed to be struggling with something. She opened a mouth to ask him what his problem was, when he jerked her forward and kissed her.

She felt the kiss right up till her toes – though that was possible because he nearly lifted her off the floor. His arms snaked behind her, touching her shoulder bones, the ends of her hair, the back of her neck. Her goodbye had gotten lost somewhere between his teeth, their thoughts tangled up and snarled together. Her fingers touched his jaw, and she felt his own words then – the little bit of confusion, the cross irritation, the disbelief –

The train whistled loudly again.

He stopped.

They were breathing deeply.

“Go,” he said.

She climbed the train. She leaned against the walls of the train, unable to get herself to go to her seat, breathing in out in out in out in out –

Slowly the wheels began to move.

She felt the wind again, her hair moving almost unconsciously towards the door, creeping towards him. She felt the pace pick up, the speed of the train reminding her of the October flowers, home, Kasia – they were a step away.

But _he _was here.

And she hung from the door, gripping the bar near the opening and swung outside. She called, with all her might:

“_Sarkan!” _

He turned around. “You’ll get _killed, _Agnieszka!” he shouted.

“We’re having dinner when I get back!” she yelled, oblivious.

“Get _inside, _you lunatic!”

“_No!” _she said. “Tell me if you want dinner! I can make an _amazing _chilly!”

“Fine!” he called desperately, as the train began to speed up in earnest. “Just go _inside!” _

“And I’m going to kiss you again!”

“You _moron –”_

“_Are_ _you alright with me kissing you?” _

“_YES!” _

And she smiled at him as he seemed to get successfully angrier and happier. She threw him a last kiss in the air, left the smell of apples, and swung back inside the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said I LOVE REVIEWS!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I love reviews!!


End file.
